


The Other Son

by Priscellie



Category: Dresden Files - Butcher
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-12
Updated: 2008-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Priscellie/pseuds/Priscellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas Raith has a brother.  (Note:  Contains potentially disturbing moments that don't fit under any of the Archive Warnings.  They're far less disturbing than what can be found in the books, but just wanted to put that out there.)</p><p>While this story generally doesn't spoil anything past <i>Blood Rites</i>, I do make reference to an event from the short story "It's My Birthday Too" in the last chapter.  It shouldn't affect your enjoyment if you haven't read it, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TigerKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerKat/gifts).



> This story was written for Kat for the Dresden Halloween Ficathon. My prompt was "Thomas on Harry. Let's see his POV on his baby brother. I don't want slash of any sort, just brotherly shenanigans."
> 
> I originally planned this as a series of drabbles, one per book. Then I realized I had more to say, so I expanded it to a series of drabble pairs, plus a big bonus ficlet for a certain scene in _Blood Rites_. Then I realized I wasn't delivering on the "brotherly shenanigans" part of the prompt, and time was running out, and the double drabble format was making me feel too confined, so I scrapped any semblance of format and just wrote for however long each moment needed to be. I'm still quite pleased with it, despite the lack of any rhyme or reason in the writing process. Hope you like it, Kat!
> 
> Thanks to Feather and Bard for the brilliant beta job!
> 
> Disclaimer: Thomas, Harry, and all other assorted characters and concepts belong to Jim Butcher. He's a smart one, he is. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction.

I have a brother.

Okay, I've had several, though all were dead long before my birth. This is different. Better to say my mother had another son. I knew she died only a few short years after escaping my father, but it never occurred to me it was enough time to start a new family. I never expected my sudden curiosity at what she'd done in that time to yield such strange fruit, but it's there in the microfilm archives of the Omaha Herald. Harry Dresden, son of Malcolm and Margaret. Not Harrison or Henry. Harry.

His birth announcement and mom's obituary are on the same page.

The quiet murmur of the library continues unabated, utterly failing to acknowledge that the earth has just been jolted off its axis. It's not unlike first learning the truth about my family: my world gets a little bigger and scarier and more difficult to understand or control, but the rest of the planet thinks it's just another day. Sometimes, I envy them.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" the prim young librarian asks. Spots of color ride high in her cheeks, and her breathing is quick and shallow. She isn't particularly pretty, but she has the kind of rigid restraint that's always fun to shatter, releasing the wildcat within. My mind is elsewhere, however.

"Not at all," I say.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry Dresden is a lot like how I pictured him, and I'm not talking about the dark hair and razor cheekbones we inherited from our mother. I've seen pictures, but photographs are no gauge of what someone's _like_. A man can be all smiles for the camera, yet be a complete bastard in real life. Whereas Harry's choice in attire alone suggests everything he does--from advertising in the yellow pages down to simply breathing--is tailored to piss off someone in power. Safe to say I like him immediately--infuriating, borderline-suicidal stubbornness and all. We must get that from mom, too.

He's hurting now. I tell myself it isn't my fault his girlfriend showed up at the ball uninvited, or that everything went to hell, or that I had to wager her safety in a failed gamble to spare my Justine. He's not a part of my life. Hell, we only met tonight. He doesn't even know we're related. I don't owe him anything, and he owes nothing to me. But I'll risk my neck retrieving that stupid sword, because my half-brother is the only hope I have left. Fate must be having a good laugh at my expense. I'm coming, Justine.


	3. Chapter 3

Justine's scrapes and bruises are starting to fade, at last. The bite marks will take more time to heal. But the horror of her abduction and abuse may take even longer. She still aches in places I feel outraged to think about, but I keep my fury in check, so that she might have a calm, quiet place to recover herself again.

We lie together the entire day, fully clothed, just holding each other and talking quietly. She babbles at first, telling meandering, disjointed stories of her parents and siblings that don't really seem to be going anywhere. She doesn't mention the fire that killed them when she was twelve years old. Sometimes it seems she doesn't remember it at all.

I like hearing her talk. I like the momentary flashes of insight into what goes on in that strange, whirling mind of hers. Later, when she's feeling more confident, she mentions Harry, and how she wants to thank him for rescuing her. I nod and kiss her forehead. "Later, when he gets out of the hospital," I assure her.

It scares me sometimes, the solace I find in her arms. Sometimes I worry I'm becoming as addicted to her as she is to me.


	4. Chapter 4

Susan doesn't speak at first, the intrepid girl-reporter lost for words for probably the first time in her life. There's a nervous tension in the way she holds herself, like an animal prepared to flee at a moment's notice. From her seat on the sprawling white leather couch opposite me, she studies the mansion's furnishings, her gaze lingering on the bright sunlight streaming in through the picture windows. Finally, she lets herself look at Justine and me. She makes only the briefest eye contact, instead noting where I'm touching Justine as she leans into my body, how I draw little circles on her upper arm or stroke her neck to siphon off just enough energy to keep her madness at bay. Susan doesn't seem to be judging us, which is a rarity among those newly familiar with the White Court. But then again, she spent time with Justine, away from my influence. She understands.

"You have questions," I prompt gently.

She exhales through her nose. "It's hard to know where to begin," she murmurs, gathering her thoughts. "You hear about it every day. People make one mistake, and it destroys their lives. The new mother leaves her son in the bath for just one minute when she runs to pick up the phone. The seemingly-lucky gambler chooses to play one more game with the money he owes his loan shark, double or nothing, before cashing in his chips." She shakes her head. "I just _had_ to get an interview with a vampire."

I offer her a sympathetic smile. "At least you're getting the interview. Does that count for anything?"

She snorts. "Like Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise wrapped into one. Too bad it's nothing I intend to publish." The momentary mirth fades from her face. "I knew my job was risky--I knew dating _Harry_ was risky--but I never imagined something like this happening to me. I guess no one really does."

My mind flashes to the young woman, cold and still and naked in my bed so many years ago, the virile euphoria coursing through my limbs matched only by the horror in my heart at pale skin and white eyes and the certain knowledge that I'd somehow murdered the first woman I'd ever slept with. I swallow and pull Justine a little closer. "Yeah. That's how life works."

"It doesn't ever go away, does it?" she says, her voice a whisper. "The thirst?"

"No," I say. "But you'll learn to live with it. To keep it under control."

She shudders. "What exactly am I facing?"

"You'll take on a number of Red Court qualities. Heightened speed, heightened strength, heightened senses. You'll heal faster."

She lets out a little noise that might have been a sob. "And in exchange, I have to lock myself inside at night, for fear I'll lose control and kill someone."

I nod. "That's probably best for the time being. You're sharing skin with a demon. Until you've learned to cohabitate, you need to do everything to can to keep the upper hand. Do things that make you feel human, that the Red Court can't do. Go sunbathing."

"It's October."

"It's always summer in Aruba," I joke. But her face shuts down. My realization dawns. "You're thinking of leaving."

She bows her head. "For a little while, at least. I can't stay here and pretend everything is normal." She swallows, pain filling her voice. "And I can't stand the idea of him pitying me, or blaming himself every time he looks at me."

It's my turn to feel ashamed. Harry hadn't done this to her. He'd done everything he could to protect her. Whereas I was the one who let the vampires take her. I feel the apology forming on my lips, but then Justine buries her face in my shoulder, and I can't do it. With Justine endangered, I'd do the same thing again a hundred times over.

I lean forward, and Justine sits up on her own. I take her hand, to maintain skin contact. "There are others like you, you know. They may be able to help you come to terms with the new roommate. They call themselves The Fellowship of Saint Giles."

Susan arches a skeptical eyebrow. "Like the Buffy character?"

"Like the patron of lepers and outcasts," I say. "I can put you in touch. You won't have to reinvent the wheel. You'll be surrounded by people who understand what you're going through and know how to deal with it."

"I'd like that," she says. "Thank you." Then she snorts gently. "Jesus. Most people don't even believe vampires exist. Now I'm about to enroll in the quasi-bloodsucker AA."

I give her a tense smile. "Might be tough to explain to your boss."

Susan laughs. "Are you kidding? Of all the bosses in this city, mine would probably be the one most likely to accept it. Though..." She withdraws slightly. "Are you going to get in trouble for helping me? The way I understand it, you and Harry are at war now."

I shrug. "Father would probably approve. He's always looking for new and exciting ways to get me killed. And besides, I like Harry."

"Why?"

I grin enigmatically "Let's just say we have a lot in common."


	5. Chapter 5

The emissary is bland. Aggressively so. Every aspect of his appearance, from the artless part of his mousy-brown hair, to the casual hint of scruff on his chin, to his neutral-toned, nondescript clothing, seems calculated to be unmemorable. But beneath that façade, I sense a truly dangerous man. I feel the demon inside him. I acknowledge my fellow wolf in sheep's clothing with a subtle incline of the head, and he faces me without fear, without offering me his hand. "I'm Martin," he says. "Miss Rodriguez and I plan to assassinate Don Paolo Ortega. Will you assist us?"


	6. Chapter 6

I take no particular pleasure in hoodwinking Harry. Most brothers bond over sports or camping trips or playing pirates or cops and robbers, whereas so far our only interactions have been in an environment of deception and sticky political intrigue. As far as he's concerned, I'm probably just his life's flamboyant, chemically debauched, "doesn't really seem evil, but watch your back anyway" vampire cameo.

It makes me wonder if I'll ever be in a place where I can tell Harry the truth. I've learned enough about him to know that the prospect of having family is not something he would take lightly. The knowledge I wield about our mother and her life with my father is a hammer: it might just as easily destroy him as it could make him stronger.

So I look for ways to be a part of his world, however peripherally, even though he has no idea what I'm really up to. I've become rather adept at annoying my father at just the right times, so he feels inclined to send his bastard son to the latest "high chance of death" Red Court function in his place.

Maybe someday, the stars will align, and lions will lay down with lambs, and the Cubs will win the Series, and I'll be able to tell him. But until then, I'll watch his back. He's my little brother, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

I awaken with empty arms. The air is heavy with her scent, lingering in the sheets and on my skin, but she remains elusive. A smile curves my lips. My doe is hiding.

I imagine stalking her through the twisting corridors and myriad rooms of the manor, listening close for the rapid beating of her heart, for the soft gasp of breath she fears--she _hopes_\--will give her away. I imagine setting upon her, panther sleek, and pinning her arms where she hides, taking her right there. She will surrender willfully, joyfully, and cry out in ecstasy as I--

My stomach clenches so violently I can't breathe. Memories of the previous night return with a vengeance.

I killed her. I consumed her soul's energy to restore myself. I addicted her so completely that she let herself be devoured, threw herself to the wolf so that it might keep consuming, keep destroying. It's hard to make sense of it. It's morning, and the world continues to turn, but she's no longer a part of it.

Her life force gives strength to my limbs, and the bullet wounds are nearly gone--my body is whole. Yet inside, I feel corrupted. My demon snarls its frustration, demanding to know when I intend to bring it its next meal, and a terrifying, alien emotion clutches at my chest, burning me from the inside. Finally I understand my father's warnings.

No wonder its touch is anathema to our kind.

I wasn't going to tell Harry the truth before. Not yet, at least. But I need something now. Need something the human side of me can latch on to, so for a brief moment I can pretend it's stronger than the demon. Or maybe it's the other way around. Maybe I need him to reject me, so I can give up on this sham of humanity altogether. All I know is that I can't keep living the way I am right now, torn between human and demon.

So what say you, brother? Will I be the man or the monster? Is there a place in your world for the creature that destroyed his Justine?


	8. Chapter 8

I look into my brother's eyes, and he looks into mine.

The world changes.

We are on the sidewalk of a nighttime city street, flanked by empty buildings and littered with abandoned cars. Heavy wind and freezing rain buffet Harry as he struggles forward, every step a battle. Terrible, whispering things lurk just out of sight, and I can see where some have snared his flesh with tiny hooks, shining beetle-black, as they try to pull him backward into the darkness.

His path is long and lonely and treacherous, but I see where large-soled footprints in the cement mark the responsible route, guiding his way. A huddle of glowing street lamps illuminates small patches of sidewalk, helping keep the oppressive darkness at bay. Then high in the sky, seen only intermittently through the dark clouds, a woman looks down on his struggle from where the moon should be, her dark skin luminous. She reaches down to him with open arms, her love an almost tangible presence, though she herself is remote and untouchable as the heavens. A black tattoo has already encroached over much of her body, blotting out the glow, but her light continues to burn with a stubborn determination.

"He loved her so deeply," a woman's voice says, beside me. "But he couldn't save her."

She isn't any taller than me, or standing above me, but I have to look up to meet her eyes, the way a child might. She doesn't fit in the atmosphere of the soulgaze metaphor at all. She wears a yellow sundress that doesn't try to conceal a belly rounded with pregnancy, and a pentacle amulet glints in the incongruous bright autumn sun that illuminates her alone. I feel my heart constrict in my chest.

"Mom," I croak out.

She smiles, warm and loving and concerned, and somehow that makes seeing her even harder. She seems… complete, somehow fuller than when I knew her. She is still tall and slender, but she doesn't have the gauntness immortalized in father's painting. She has the vitality of a woman that loves and is loved in return, not the cold, diminished shadow of Lord Raith's consort-queen.

I'm confused at her appearance for a moment, but then I understand. This artifact of our mother's essence had made her home in Harry's soul, after all. Until I 'd revealed my father's portrait, the only representation he'd had of her had been pieced together from photographs and his father's memories. No wonder he'd reacted so violently to the revelation that it was a rose-colored half-truth at best. I feel a sudden stab of pity for my brother. I don't know which is worse: to have known her and been abandoned, or to never have known her at all.

She reaches down to me and gathers me up in her arms, but I can't reciprocate. My flesh feels like poison.

"Oh, my Thomas," she murmurs into my hair. "My sweet Thomas. I'm so sorry."

The words spill out of me, childlike, unbidden. "You left me behind. You left me to them, to become one of them. I never had a chance. I didn't _know_. And now she--" My voice breaks off. I can't say the word.

She rocks me gently, making soft, soothing noises. "You're like me, you know," she says, "far more than your father. You let yourself love when you shouldn't, when it can only end in sorrow for both of you." My eyes squeeze shut, spilling tears onto her shoulder. "Your enemies think it makes you weak, vulnerable. But your love makes you stronger than they could ever imagine."

She can't understand. I don't feel stronger. I've never felt more powerless. "I don't know how much longer I can keep fighting," I say, my voice weak.

She steps back, holding me at arm's length. She forces me to meet her eyes by the sheer command of her presence. "You are my son. You will keep fighting until the last breath has left your body." Then her look softens again. "Your brother needs you, Thomas. Will you let him stand alone in his time of need?"

Anger surges through my heart, and I shove her hands off my shoulders. She has no right to talk to me about leaving family alone when they need her most.

"My brother hates me," I spit, roughly wiping the tears away with the heel of my hand. "He's disgusted by me. Hell, his people are at war with mine. The only reason he's hanging around with me now is because innocent lives are at stake and he thinks he owes me a favor."

I'd expected her to lash out at me in return, but instead her look is pitying. "Harry isn't the one who hates you right now, little one. You need to forgive yourself," she says. "It's one more thing you and your brother have in common."

I turn my back to her, clenching my jaw against the truth in her words. "And I should forgive you, too, I'll bet. Because you were too busy 'letting yourself love when you shouldn't' to remember you already had a son."

She is silent, long enough for me to wonder if she'd actually vanished from the fabric of the soulgaze. But just when I'm about to turn around, she speaks. "Leaving you was the hardest decision I've ever had to make. I wanted so much to go back for you, but I didn't have the strength to take on your father," she says. She pauses, considering her words. "I don't know how much you remember about that time. You were only a child. Lord Raith is powerful now, but his might was a thousand-fold then. His white empire was on the rise, and it wasn't long before he would have been poised to take on the rival vampire Courts, the Council--nothing could have stood in his way. He had the knowledge and the resources to create the ultimate weapon." She swallows, and when she speaks again, there is steel in her tone. "I robbed him of that opportunity."

I face her again, incredulous, and this time I don't have to look up to meet her eyes. It isn't just her appearance that differs from father's portrait. Like Harry, the woman I'd pieced together from my own hazy childhood memories and the recollections of my sisters didn't offer a complete picture of her, either. The self-amused arrogance my father captured now presents itself as an unshakable sense of self, the cold ambition as passionate defiance. She carries herself with pride, her hands supporting her belly, and she holds her upturned chin with confidence and surety.

The childlike sorrow and indignation are rooted too deep in my heart to be healed all at once, but I have a new weapon against them: I'm beginning to understand.

She sees the change in my expression and offers me her hand. "Walk with me," she says. I take it.

We approach my brother, still frozen in his endless struggle, oblivious to our presence. She smoothes his wind-tousled hair out of his eyes. "I left you both great burdens," she says, "burdens no man should carry on his own. You inherited my battles, without choice in the matter. I did what I could to cripple your father's outward expansion, to punish him for his crimes, but he still remains a threat. Only together can you finish what I began."

I study my brother's face, head bowed against the onslaught of wind and rain. "I will. Guess it'll depend on him."

She nods, then looks to the ground ahead of my brother, into his future. The lampposts are less common there, and some are burned out entirely. We move to the nearest one, just beyond the edge of the main huddle, only giving off the faintest hint of a glow. The concrete below is so cracked and overgrown with weeds, it's hard to make out the footprints.

Mother touches the bare metal of the pole, and the light grows in intensity, steadily coming to illuminate the sidewalk ahead of Harry. "This one can be yours, if you want it," she says.

I place my hand beside hers, and the light gets even brighter, casting light on the potential hazards in his path. It feels a little unsettling. I, the vampire, taker of life, still have the capacity to give something back. I look down the line of lampposts, and now I can see the faces of the souls they represent. The brightest pair I recognize: short blonde hair framing a cheerleader-cute face, then wise, smiling eyes, a solid build, and a warrior's beard. I'm not familiar with the rest: a stocky, bearded old man in overalls whose light flickers uncertainly; a balding, bespectacled man with a priest's collar; an attractive, willowy young woman with hair the color of wheat; and group of athletic-looking kids that must've still been in college. His friends.

"And the footprints?" I ask, though I'm fairly certain of the answer.

My mother's eyes fill with tears, but she smiles widely, clasping her hands over her heart, fingering the thin, plain band of gold that's as much a part of who she was at the end as the single freckle on her left collarbone. "He was a good man," she whispers, and her voice is thick with sorrow and pride and a love that went beyond mere words, that outlasted death.

The world starts to fade around us, and I realize my time is nearly up. I want to kick myself for spending so much of it stubbornly fighting what she had to impart to me.

I embrace her now without hesitation, and she enfolds me in her arms. "My son," she whispers into my hair. "My brave, beautiful son." My arms tighten around her, knowing I don't have much longer to be with her, that this will be the last time I hold my mother. "I hope someday you can forgive me."

I nod. The cars and buildings are gone, and the last streetlamps wink out, leaving us in blackness.

"Tell him I love him," she says, "just as I love you."

"I will," I say, and then she is gone.

But not entirely.

Harry sits opposite me, his face wet with tears.

"Did you see her?" I hazard, my voice shaky.

"Yeah," he says.

I brace myself for rejection, but suddenly he's laughing, and I'm laughing, and both halves of what that simple, terrifying phrase connotes have meaning.

I have a brother.


	9. Chapter 9

I arrive at Harry's apartment just as it's getting dark. Already, kids in brightly-colored costumes are swarming the streets, parents and older siblings in tow. I kick the warped steel door amicably, rather than juggling the armloads of bags to free a hand. "Trick or treat!" I shout.

When he answers the door, he's clearly surprised to see me. I know this because of my keenly-tuned vampire senses, and because he's wearing only jeans, with a damp towel around his shoulders.

I raise an eyebrow. "Getting ready for a night out?"

He shakes his head, waving me inside. "There was an incident in the lab. Molly got it into her head to rearrange some of my potion ingredients, and I didn't notice I'd picked up the wrong bottle until I was covered in brown sludge."

"You sure know how to spend a Friday night," I say, sprawling on his sofa and putting my feet up on the coffee table. "No plans, then?"

He shrugs and sits down next to me. "I figured I'd stay at home, close to the phone, for when Murphy inevitably calls me because some terrifying demon has been let loose in Millennium Park."

I grin. "Man. One zombie uprising and you're spoiled for Halloween forever."

"I like to be prepared. I have to compensate for all those years not being a Boy Scout."

"Clearly, I got all the fun genes." I readjust one of the throw pillows behind me for maximum comfort. "Am I going to get in the way of your thrilling adventures in sitting around, waiting for a girl to call you?"

Harry glares at me. "Is there a purpose to your visit, or are you just here to mock me in my own home?"

"Mocking you is always entertaining. But I'm here tonight because it's your birthday, you dolt."

He smiles widely, something he doesn't do nearly enough. "I thought we agreed we weren't celebrating birthdays."

"In that case, I'll take my candy and beer and go someplace else I'll be appreciated!" I say, standing up. "You think they lock the U of Chicago Freshman Women's dorm?"

Harry grabs my sleeve and drags me back down on the couch. "Sit! Stay! Your offering pleases the gods. Now gimme."

I pass him one of the two bags of candy, which he boggles at. "You do realize trick-or-treaters rarely come to basement apartments."

"More for us, then."

"And you do realize I don't have dental insurance?"

"Chicken." I pull out a six-pack of Bud. He makes a face, but he takes one anyway, then clinks his bottle with mine.

"To cavities!" he toasts. Then he takes a swig and promptly chokes. He boggles at the label. "This is Mac's!"

"It's Halloween. Everyone gets a costume. Which reminds me." I open the last sack and toss a plastic bag at Harry. "Put it on."

My brother blinks at the "Scary Vampire Costume (Adult)" label and cheesy photo, and looks at me like I've finally gone round the bend. "Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any idea how ridiculous this is?"

"You got me Rock'em Sock'em Robots. Do you have any idea how difficult that is to top in terms of ridiculousness?" I don the star-and-moon-bedecked "Wizard" robe and hat from my sack, eyeing him imperiously. Then I stick my tongue out.

He shakes his head in amusement as he pulls on the frilly shirt and drapes the high-collared cloak over his shoulders. "You have the maturity of a six-year-old," he says.

I hook the bushy grey beard around my ears. "Well, you have the sex life of one," I retort airily.

He lets out a bark of laughter and hurls a Tootsie Roll at my head. It's one of the big ones the size of your thumb, not the dinky "fun sized" ones half the size of your pinky. I never went trick or treating as a kid, but even I know what's lame. I fire back with a handful of Starburst.

Then candy is flying like screaming mortars in an epic Halloween battle, and Mouse is excitedly romping around the room like a hyperactive puppy, and Mister is alternating between aloof distain from his bookshelf perch and predatory alertness whenever a piece of candy whizzes past his head.

We never get around to answering the door.


End file.
